


in the morning sun and when the night is new

by still_intrepid



Series: No Greater Ally [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Battle of Britain, Fighter Pilots, Getting to Know Each Other, Kissing, Language Barrier, M/M, Pianist Poland, Pianist!Poland, Wartime Romance, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-20 18:05:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2438027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/still_intrepid/pseuds/still_intrepid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabbles around the time England and Poland spent thrown together during the Battle of Britain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. piano night

**Author's Note:**

> This is a timeline/idea I keep coming back to - England and Poland fighting in the air together in 1940, getting to know each other and, yes, falling quickly into this kind of wartime romance. I wrote a bunch of little bits and piece, mostly on the sweet/gentle side of things - _but_ , this is in the same series as _No Greater Ally_ so unfortunately we already know how it's going to end. 
> 
> I posted these on tumblr through last year mostly but I figure I should actually my fic archive as such, maybe? :)
> 
> Not necessarily in chronological order! Human names used as well in this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set rather early days when they’re a bit prone to misunderstand each other and be snappy, but they’re trying to get along (aand Feliks is learning English!) Originally posted on tumblr for [natalyaromanoff](http://russias.co.vu/).

England puts on a coat over his night things and follows the melancholic sound across the yard to the commandeered pub.  The door creaks as he pushes it open, and Poland - it is Poland at the piano - starts guiltily.

Since that first day, England’s never seen him look anything less than immaculately groomed, and usually in his presence feels an urge to tamp down his hair and straighten his tie like a chastened schoolboy.  In civvies now with his hair loose about his shoulders, and in the low light, Feliks looks softer somehow, and younger, very young indeed. 

"I’m sorry - keep playing."

"Mmmh."  Poland doesn’t, instead half-turning around to look at England.  "Hullo."

"Good, uh, evening."  It must be gone three.  "How did you get in here?"

A shrug.  “Earlier, I ask for the key.  I expected I..” he indicates vaguely.

"Trouble sleeping, eh?"

This is perhaps too idiomatic.  Poland says, “Troubled, a little.”

England approaches cautiously.  There’s no music on the stand but he thinks he knows the tune he heard.  “Chopin?” he asks.

"Yeah," Poland says.  A pause.  England begins to think he needs to ask more open questions if they want to maintain any kind of conversation.  Then Poland frowns.  "Did you know, his music is now forbidden?  Such an idiot.  Not Chopin.  I mean."

"Really, forbidden? Why?"

Poland raises an eyebrow.  “He was Polish.”

 _Right_.  England exhales, shakes his head.  Another pause.  “May I sit?”

Poland nods.  England pulls out a chair to sit beside him.  Again, the silence stretches out, until once again Feliks saves the situation.

"I heard you made Beethoven a British citizen once."

"What? Oh."  You have to laugh.  "Yes, I think we did do that.  What, uh… what do you think of that, then?"

"It’s … cute," Poland says.  And England grasps it.  _Cute that you had leisure to create dead composers naturalized citizens._ He glances sidelong at Poland’s face and sees something of the question haunting there before it’s asked.

"Do you, do you remember what it’s like, an occupied city?"

"I…  Not well," England admits.

"Mmm."  Poland grins suddenly and pats him twice on the arm, an oddly theatrical gesture.  "It’s okay.  We’re fighting, so you won’t have to remember it again."


	2. aglow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a direct continuation from last one. ...at this point they _totally like each other like that_ but nothing romantic-type has happened yet.

The next morning after breakfast finds England and Poland standing around England’s desk, sorting their mail.  Or rather, since, as he is always complaining, Poland doesn’t get enough post, _England_ is sorting _his_ mail, and _Poland_ is entertaining himself by nosing around the miscellany of scraps England hasn’t gotten around to filing.

"Your boss wrote this?" Poland asks, eyebrows raised over a single sheet of light letter paper.

England walks around to his side to look.  “Which?” 

But Feliks holds the letter out of reach.  “I’ll read. It’s practice.”  He clears his throat importantly and puts on an accent of some kind.  “Erhem.  _If the Almighty were to rebuild the world and asked me for advice, I would have English Channels round every country. And the atmosphere would be such that anything which attempted to fly would be set on fire_.”

”Oh,” says England.  “That.  Indeed.  Well, it’s a point of view, and not an illogical one… “

"You are a _very_ island nation,” Poland teases and shakes his head.

England shrugs.  “I suppose so.  And you’re… very much not.”

"Very much not."

"What do you think?" England says carefully, wary of his friend’s history, "In theory.  Wouldn’t things have been easier for you if the world _was_ made this way?”

"Eh, maybe yes," says Poland, looking down and flicking his fingers in that funny habit he has.  "But, I love things that fly."

"… so do I… "  The words have sped, armed with more meaning than they have a right to, before Arthur can stop them.

Feliks glances quickly at him, catching the timbre of his voice, and, “D’you - uh-?” he starts.

"I really do," mutters Arthur, flushing to the roots of his hair, and there’s a moment that’s a moment too long, too awkward, they’re scrutinizing each other’s faces, then he leans in and, suddenly tender, kisses Feliks’ lips.  The letter flutters to the floor between them.

Feliks backs away after a second, staring, open-mouthed, then he laughs at what must be the completely poleaxed expression on Arthur’s face. 

"Okay," Feliks says, "alright, okay," and kisses Arthur.

This time they take longer about it, getting used to each other and this closeness, and it’s a lot more than ‘ _alright_ ’.  The world had shrunk to space between their faces, the dazed flicker of Feliks’ eyelashes, the way the light catches on his cheekbones before Arthur too closes his eyes, the dear softness of his lips.  It’s gentle, so gentle, a little hesitant and they’re nearly silent, until, perhaps because they’re both at the same time going for a bit more passion, there’s a collision of noses and now they’re laughing out loud and finally, finally they’ve arms about each other, holding each other, close, and that’s all, a little shaky.  

"This is nice," Feliks mumbles, shifts, presses his cheek against Arthur’s shoulder.

Arthur’s heart beats painfully strong.

"Someone might come in," he mutters, eventually.

"So you go and lock the door," Poland whispers, but he doesn’t mean it, and they regretfully let go of each other.  There is work to be done.  But today they go about it with hearts aglow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot for the life of me find out when and where [that Winston Churchill quote](http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/w/winstonchu111289.html) is actually from, but isn’t it interesting? Let's say whenever he officially said it he wrote it in a private letter to his country in 1940.
> 
> Theory here is that Feliks speaks very little English prior to this (and of course Arthur speaks no Polish), and that while he learns preternaturally quickly, it does take some time get more fluent.


	3. push you around

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...France, they're talking about you behind your back.
> 
> Drabble for [idolgirlfriends](http://idolgirlfriends.tumblr.com/) aka [Lindz](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindz).

By 2am, the last bottle is empty, but the honesty is flowing to excess.  England is trying in a roundabout way to express how happy he is at this moment.

"… far from it.  I - it’s rather a relief to have someone who doesn’t push or hurry me.  Like _France._ ”

Poland smiles, flattered and tipsy and utterly charming, and then says, offhand, “Actually in truth, France is totally gentle.”

"Huh!" England snorts, "speak for yourself!"

An awkward pause as they both catch up with the conversation.

"Uhhhm," says Poland.

"This conversation," England decrees, "did not take place.  I am... redacting it.  In its entirety."  He makes a gesture: strike-out, censor’s pen.  "Never happened.  Sworn to secrecy, Poland.  Never tell a — _stop laughing!!_ ”

Feliks throws his head back and laughs harder, and soon Arthur can’t help joining him.  “Bloody hell…”  He rolls his eyes and catches his breath.  “ _All I meant_ was: we’ve been fighting since we were little.”

"Oh suuuure.  Well, all _I_ meant was he never did, you know, pushed me into any stuff.”

England scoffs.  “Ha, I should like to see the one who could push _you_ around,” — and then he realises what he’s said.

How is it possible to feel so entirely sober and so suddenly sick all at once?

The laughter in Poland’s eyes is snuffed out in an instant but he rallies.  “That’s right!” he exclaims.  “I do exactly what I want.”


	4. reading matter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set earlier, I think.
> 
> APH Rare Pair week had a language-learning theme one day.

Mostly, the pilots find it hard to concentrate on anything past magazines. England has brought with him several of his old favourite books but can’t settle to a single one.  He sighs and bookmarks _The Complete Father Brown_ more or less at random, then glances across to Poland, who is frowning intently over a slim paperback.

“What’s that you’ve got there?” he asks. “Research?”

Poland blinks at him and shakes his head.  “Nah, fiction. For, like, the vocabulary.”

Speaking of which, _that_ is an interesting and not-readily-explicable verbal tic for Poland to have picked up…

Feliks flips up the book to show Arthur the cover. 

It seems to be a series children’s book about horses.

“ _Ponies_ ,” Poland says solemnly.  “Because, you know me.”

 England only laughs a little.  “...I’m beginning to,” he says.


	5. Magnificent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah now, here we go. A decent (ish) length one, and a properly shippy one.

"England!!"

He turns in time to see Poland _launch_ himself at him in a flying leap.  He catches him under the arms and the momentum spins them around, laughing, helmets knocked askew.

”Love, you were magnificent!” Arthur cries.  (The precise words will, hopefully, go largely unheard above the hubbub of congratulation between the ground crew running over and the pilots - _every single one of them alive and home_.  Frankly, at that moment he doesn’t care a jot who hears.)

"Come on —"

Poland tugs him along and England doesn’t think to ask where as they dash indoors just as the rain begins, laughing still and talking far too loud as if above engine noise.  Talking over each other, competing in each other’s praise — “That was amazing!”, “and you—”, “and _you_ —”

Incredible! What fine luck! What _flying_!

They pile into England’s office, which is closest, tugging off their gloves and scarves.

" - that was mental - "

*

There’s a single moment at tipping-point, gazing into each other’s faces with eyes too wide, with matching grins that very nearly falter.  Because.  The giddy relief has to fall one way or the other, over into tears or into laughter.   _Oh-Christ-_ _I-almost-lost-yo_ u or _that-was-bloomin’-amazing-we-are-invincible_.

It tips over into laughter.  Crazy lucky lads.  Just magic.

Feliks unties his hair and shakes it out.

"Well, that’s that, Poland, you’re a bona-fide hero now, just get yourself in that canteen and they’ll go crazy for you - "

"Yeah," Feliks pants, "uh huh, but..." He dips his chin just a touch and his eyes sparkle. "Right now I would rather stay here." 

England comes to treasure these moments.  This _Poland_ , battle-bright and unashamed.  His own self feeling so heady and heedless, unreal - this isn’t truly real and it cannot last, but that doesn’t matter, not with Feliks looking at him like that, so wanting and so in-control both: so dazzling.

Arthur elbows the door shut behind him without a glance and spreads his arms wide.  “Then come here, you _beauty_ , you mad bloody genius-“

Feliks closes the few steps’ distance in an instant and they’re in each other’s arms again, kissing passionately, Arthur pressed back against the door, greedily pulling Feliks closer into him; they’re kissing in their uniforms, tugging each other’s jackets open, it feels delicious, illicit and luxuriant, hands still-cold making each other shiver, making each other warm.

”- love, love,” Arthur murmurs as they pause for breath.

Feliks stands on tiptoe and solemnly kisses the end of his nose, _yes_.

"You too," he says.

Then he wraps his arms round England’s neck again and lazily slides them both down to the floor, sitting, flopping against his shoulder.  “‘m sleepy,” he whines, cosy, complacent.

England smiles, then shakes himself. “Not yet you’re not!  Come on, we need to join the party.”

"Oh yeah, like, definitely that!"  Poland exclaims.  "...Oh, England _,_ didn’t they do well?”

*

One more kiss before they go. 

This feeling, some of it, is hope.  Hope which might just last the night through, even when ambrosia of adrenalin is gone.  Hope, and -

One more kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's so happy and non-doomed! And... unsustainable, I'm afraid, yeah :(


	6. cups of tea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something has just happened, something bad. England will be alright.
> 
> Zosia (Zofia) hasn't appeared -- in this story, she was a young woman who helped/rescued Poland in 1939. Ugh, someday, maybe, I'll actually write these OCs I have in my brain ;;

_Knock-knock-knock._

England stands before his dresser, shaking hands halfway to his face.  He can’t, somehow, work out what to _do_ next.

_Knock-knock-knock-knock-knock._

“Are you decent or whatever, because now I’m going to come in.”

England nods rapidly, realises that this signifies nothing through a closed door, and by that time Poland has walked in.

He finally retrieves his voice from its hiding place in the back of his throat.  “Poland.”

“Hi.  England.  Um.”  Poland stops speaking then begins again abruptly into full flow.  “Hey you know that story how we Slavs are so open with emotions?  Like we’re always in storms of unashamed manly tears?”

“Can’t say I’ve noticed much of that from you,” England says hoarsely.

“Well okay, there hasn’t been _time_.  But what I mean—” It seems when Feliks is really in earnest, he avoids your eyes.  “I mean.  Look, if you want to have a good howl yourself now then I’m here, and about ready to join you.”

England almost does it, flings himself at his friend and sobs his heart out into his shirt.  It’s overwhelming, all this and then such softness, _Poland_ who’d _sought him out_ , who’d clearly stood outside his door steeling himself and preparing that little speech.  Arthur feels his mouth tremble as everything teeters on the brink of misery, but he masters it.  When he feels he can manage, he steps in and claps his arms around Feliks’ shoulders: a brotherly gesture, which is to say both respectable and real, intimate.

“Thank you.” 

Feliks returns the embrace at once, and they stay like that for a long time, until Arthur has once again got his breathing under control.

“I can’t,” he whispers, “I can’t; not now.  I’ll be alright.  I only…”  He lets go and braves a smile.  “Cup of tea and a sit down.”

“Okay.  I’ll go get, if you like.”  But he doesn’t go anywhere for the minute. “…You know, there gonna be stories about you too, and they will be true stories.  About you and, and your cups of tea, and that weird ration-book cake.  The girls with that urn of coffee all hours — the girls transporting Spitfires somewhere new every day — and all ‘ _jolly-good-old-fruit_ ’ like everything is so ordinary… ”

England’s smile cracks genuine and a little wider.  The only words he can find to say though: “ _I’m so very proud of them._ ”

Like a form-teacher, like a parent.

“You should be.”

“It’s…  I’m not saying it’s alright for us.” His eyes flick over Feliks’ face and he hurries on, “It _isn’t_.  Nor for our bosses, or the forces.  But these… They are civilians, or they once were, and they never expected…  And yet, and yet here they are, fighting with what they have, with everything, they… have..”  That’s it, his voice is gone again.

“Hey.  Hey.  I didn’t mean to remind you —”

England shakes his head, swallows the lump in his throat.  “No.  It’s good to talk about.  And, you know how it is, of course you do.  Girls with motorbikes and wire-cutters - your Zosia…”

“Yeah.”  Poland nods several times.

Neither of them speaks for a minute.

“I can go and get tea.  Or — you want something stronger?”

“Ha…” England’s been given so many chances to venture a laugh, but this is the best he manage.  “Later, maybe.  Maybe, just the sit down for the moment, eh?”  He sits rather heavily on his bed.  He feels like an old, old man.  “Stay?  Talk to me, would you?” 

“Yeah.  Of course, yes.”

Poland deliberately kicks his shoes halfway across the floor in a display of the most civilian indiscipline as he scoots up on the bed next to England.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Kissing's not the only way people can be close to each other; there's also sorrow.)


	7. recessional

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another for [natalyaromanoff](http://natalyaromanoff.tumblr.com/), based on (the feeling of listening to) Vienna Teng's Recessional.
> 
> Special edition: a different and even more excessive writing style than usual *cough* second person PoV and not enough capital letters *cough*.

_maybe it means nothing_

you stand still as the home guard’s brass band plays out the old year, daring to let your thoughts in again as the flugel prays peace on earth. 

and your nation’s heart is forty thousand PoWs and their loved ones and those of the ones who have left us for good.  tonight warsaw scouts with no other family are fixing the newspapers and rigging train lines, and it’s Christmas and this war was supposed to be over.  last month they bombed coventry.  the radio played the bishop’s sermon and he said forgiveness; that thought is such an demanding guest to entertain you couldn’t look at each other.  in a few days it will be london: a second great fire where you stand right now.

but, your gloved hand is in his.

a little squeeze and the warmth goes deep as the heart. absurd to be affected so but somehow this feeling threatens to subsume everything else, like the sea. 

or, no.  it’s like the anchor.


End file.
